


Exculpatory

by notjustmom



Series: Words, Words, Words [276]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Birthday, First Kiss, Hug Scene (Sherlock: The Lying Detective), Love Confessions, M/M, a bit of angst, backstory for Lestrade and Sherlock, mention of time away, yet another version
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-03 10:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11529948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: exculpatory: adjective: ek-ˈskəl-pə-ˌtȯr-ē: tending to clear from a charge of guilt or faultfrom Merriam-Webster:"...The adjective comes from a combination of the prefix ex-, meaning "out of" or "away from," and the Latin noun culpa, which means "blame" or "guilt." Something exculpatory, then, frees one from accusations. Culpa has given English a number of other words, including the verb exculpate ("to clear from alleged fault or guilt"). The related but lesser-known terms inculpate ("to incriminate") and inculpatory ("incriminating") are antonyms of exculpate and exculpatory. Culpable is a synonym of blameworthy, and mea culpa refers to a formal acknowledgment of personal fault or error."First Known Use of exculpatory1781





	1. Chapter 1

The tea had once been warmish, not hot. Sherlock would have laughed if it wouldn't have hurt, and John wouldn't have understood. John was careful now, with him, with his words, more than he ever had been in all the years they had known one another. John had gingerly placed the warm mug of tea into Sherlock's still slightly trembling hands and apologised.

"Sorry. I, uhm, I hope it's sweet enough, it's just chamomile, didn't think you needed the caffeine. And I - I didn't want you to burn yourself."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, but slowly moved the mug to his lips, took a small sip and grimaced. Somehow John knew he was afraid to try to place it on the table next to him, he was still afraid to show John any weakness. He wanted to laugh again, but John carefully lifted the mug out of his hands and carried it to the kitchen sink.

"Sorry."

"It is funny." Sherlock's words sounded odd to his own ears, rusty, slow, if words could be numb, they felt numb somehow.

John looked up from the sink and their eyes met for the first time in weeks. Sherlock tried to blink and look away, but found he couldn't. Ridiculous.

"What's funny?"

"Irene."

"Irene."

Damn. Maybe not the time. Ah well, in fer a penny, in fer a pound.

"She noticed. How you hit me."

John looked away first and blew out a breath. "How I hit you."

" 'Somebody loves you...I'd avoid your nose and teeth, too...' or something to that affect. Essentially, it took her less than a minute to know..." Suddenly Sherlock wished for the security of the tepid, overly sweet tea. Something to hold on to, something to hide the tremors. "Never mind."

"No, tell me." John dumped the tea and spent a good minute scrubbing out the mug. Never had the mugs been so clean. Again, the desire to laugh burbled up.

"If I have to tell you...leave it, John. It's just a mug. The kitchen is far too -"

"Antiseptic."

"Good word, that. 'scrupulously clean...'"

John moved back to his chair, sat down and picked up his own mug. He sniffed it and made a face. "Bloody awful stuff. Sorry." He placed it back on the table in slow motion, it seemed to Sherlock that each movement was too slow, or perhaps it was just his perception of how things were.

Sherlock bit his lip, but couldn't hold back a grin. "Truly dreadful." At least smiling didn't hurt anymore. He closed his eyes, and tried to breathe normally, but his ribs still hurt. He didn't want to see John's face, he knew John could tell how much pain he was still in, even ten days later. "Exculpatory..."

"What?" John was looking at the floor when Sherlock did finally open his eyes.

"Extenuating circumstances." Sherlock watched John's hands, watched as his left balled up into a fist, then released after a moment.

"Extenuating circum -" John finally laughed. A harsh bitter laugh. "You think, what, that, I - that - do you know how close I came - if they hadn't pulled me off of you when they did..."

Sherlock wished for the words to make John stop, but he was too tired. Instead he bowed his head ever so slightly, in an attempt to encourage John to go on, he thought.

"I could have killed you. I've never come that close to killing someone I -" John shuddered. Sherlock could see the shudder and wanted to be able to hold him, as if he could change anything, but he needed John to finish the sentence.

"You what?"

"Doesn't matter anymore."

"It does. Please."

John's head shot up. "Please?"

"You know how I loathe repeating myself." Sherlock's voice betrayed him, thick, scratchy, full of the emotions which he had spent the last few weeks drowning in, the drugs had nearly done him in, and the pummeling he had taken almost finished him off, but he was convinced if left to his own devices, he could expire quite slowly simply from the sheer flood of sentimental rubbish battling for what was left of his -

"Love. I haven't - other than Mary, and that didn't really count, because I didn't truly love her."

"You weren't responsible. For Mary, I mean."

"Sure I was." John looked at his hands again, and Sherlock noted that the bruises on his knuckles had almost vanished, they had faded to a nasty shade of greenish yellow grey. "I should have -" Sherlock flexed his own fingers in empathy, simply a reflex he told himself.

"You didn't pull the trigger."

"May as well have." John looked up at Sherlock and shook his head. "You didn't hear me." A tear slid down his face and John sniffed, trying to keep his own floodgates shut up tight. "I love you." They sat in silence, until Sherlock's snort of laughter rattled his chest. "Sorry. Didn't mean to spring it on you like th- damn."

Tears rolled freely down Sherlock's face as John knelt in front of him. "Never been quite sure what that means."

"I think you do."

Sherlock shook his head and instantly regretted it. John reached a tentative hand up, as if to touch Sherlock's unbruised cheek, then made to pull back, when Sherlock grabbed his wrist and placed John's fingers against the pulse point in his neck. He heard John take a sharp breath in, before letting it go slowly.

"I have no right to ask you."

"Ask me." Again, his words seemed to come from some place outside of himself, alien, and yet -

"May I kiss you?"

Finally his words failed him completely, and all Sherlock could do was nod.

John wrapped his other hand into Sherlock's damp curls and tugged gently until their foreheads met. "I'm so very sorry, for everything, Sherlock." Sherlock took a deep breath, to the point of pain, then felt John's dry, warm lips brush against his, softly, barely caressing them. His breath escaped slowly, hissing like a balloon losing its helium. He was afraid to open his eyes, afraid that John would be gone, afraid he had hallucinated the entire conversation, "Look at me, please, Sherlock. Tell me, tell me something, anything."

Sherlock opened his eyes, his good one first, then his left one. "Do you think you could -"

"Anything."

"make me a proper cup of tea?"

John blinked at him for a moment then nodded. "Yeah, I think we both need a cuppa."

"I - uhm -"

John shook his head and placed a single finger on Sherlock's gently parted lips. "I know, Sherlock, I know."

"Let me say it?" It suddenly struck Sherlock how John seemed to be actually ashamed for the first time since they had known one another. "Please. I've always thought I'd run out of time before I got to say it to you." 

John nodded and watched Sherlock's face, no, not his face, he watched Sherlock's lips, waiting for the words to come, as if he could see them in a giant word bubble if he paid close enough attention. 

"I love you." 

"Tea. We need some tea. With loads of sugar."

"And biscuits, I think we have some in the cupboard. Choc?"

"Biscuits. Right." John groaned as he got to his feet. "Getting old." He looked down at Sherlock and smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes and made them twinkle. 

"Very much." Sherlock felt his face heat up. "That sounded lame. I'm not well versed in the words one should use -" 

John grinned then, and touched Sherlock's face lightly. "No worries, I've always thought words were highly overrated." 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a bit more...

Molly offered to keep Rosie for the night. "Now that you two idiots have finally figured it out - take a few hours to -" She kissed Sherlock's forehead gently then let herself out of the flat, as she cooed to Rosie who was perfectly content to examine her fingers.

Sherlock got up from his chair cautiously and moved slowly over to the window. He cleared his throat as he looked down into the early evening traffic. "Before you, before we - events, no, uhm, circumstances - damn." He tried to calm his breathing, but felt John's arms wrap around him before he began to hyperventilate. 

"Breathe. Slow down. I'm here, there is nothing you can say that will make me leave. I swear- "

"No." Sherlock breathed out. "Please don't make me any promises, not before you know, not before you see."

John nodded between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "I promise not to promise." Trying to lighten the mood a bit.

Sherlock snorted. "I know you believed my time away was little more than 'hide and seek'; and for a time, it was no more than that, it was a game, more or less, it was quite a thrill, actually, playing a ghost, a phantom, but, it took me too long. Far longer than it should have, when I ended up in Serbia; I was exhausted, had lost track of time, and frankly, I had given up hope of getting back to you, back to what we had before -"

John waited, knowing there was more, probably more than he ever wanted to know, but he knew that if they were ever going to be truly together in the way that they both wanted, he was going to have to let Sherlock tell him in his own time. In his way.

"They started with simple sleep deprivation, then starvation..." Sherlock stopped, and let his robe fall to the floor, then took another calming breath as John took a step back. He slowly undid the buttons on his dark blue silk shirt, gasping slightly as he twisted wrong, and his ribs let him know it.

"Slowly, we don't have to do this now."

"You need to know, I need to show you." Sherlock mumbled as he struggled to slip out of his shirt.

"Let me help?" John whispered, already afraid of what was coming. Sherlock nodded and bowed his head, waiting for whatever response John would have to what Sherlock had kept hidden from him all this time. He saw the edges of the first scars along Sherlock's shoulders, he tried to look at them as a medic, as a doctor, objectively, but soon, the love he felt for the man who shivered in front of him replaced any ideas of neutrality. He ran his fingers lightly over the light pink scars, some were smooth, others were deeper, redder, jagged and broken, bits of glass were still embedded in the once perfect skin, he could feel the imperfections in his fingertips, and then he felt the tears fall. Tears for the times when he hadn't been there, for when he had punished Sherlock with his fists and his bitterly ugly words. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock." He spotted the new bruises, from his own hands and he fell to his knees.

"John?" Sherlock turned carefully and saw his friend quietly sobbing on the carpet in front of him. "I understand." He began to put his shirt back on and head to the kitchen to fiddle with something, there was always something he could work on.

"No. Wait. It isn't you. No, that's not what I meant to say. I should have been there, with you. At the very least, I should have known, when you got back, that you weren't okay, please, stop."

Sherlock sighed and turned again to look at John who had somehow managed to get to his feet again.

"I've never blamed you, John." Sherlock whispered. "I've always just accepted the scars as my just punishment for my youthful arrogance, they are what they are, not your fault."

John bit his lip and lifted his jumper and vest over his head.

"John." Sherlock moved close enough for John to feel the detective's breath as he examined the single entry wound, then the corresponding scar showing where the bullet exited. 'May I?" The wonder and absolution in Sherlock's shattered voice nearly drove John to his knees once more, but he nodded instead and let Sherlock hold him up. "Thank you, John."

John leaned against Sherlock's chest and muttered, "seriously? What for?"

"For not running, for being here with me, after everything. For giving me a chance to love you. You and Rosie."


	3. Chapter 3

"I don't need you to -" Sherlock sighed as John lifted him in his arms. "I can walk, you know."

John kissed his cheek and smiled gently. "I know you can, let me take care of you, the way I should have. The way I always should have -" he closed his eyes as he felt how much weight Sherlock had lost, kilos he could barely afford to lose. "I'm -"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, struggling to regain some footing. "You can start feeding me up tomorrow. Tonight, though, will you - if it's not too much, just stay with me tonight, I mean -" He loathed feeling like a love sick adolescent, but as he felt John's arms tighten around him and he relaxed into John's chest, he finally felt a sense of safety - he was finally safe. Safety? No, it wasn't exactly safety, because he could feel John's strong heart beat in his fingers, and as it reverberated inside his head, he knew as he had always known that it wasn't safety that he saw in John the first time their eyes met. There had been something he couldn't see, couldn't rationalise in John's focused, wary glare, an unknown quantity, and it was as if a grenade had gone off in the lab that day, that had shaken Sherlock to his very foundation.

"Hey?" John had laid him in his bed and was kneeling on the floor, watching him curiously. "Where'd you go?"

Sherlock blinked at him, then reached out to ruffle John's hair. "I always wondered what it would feel like, to be able to touch you, and know that you weren't going to disappear when I opened my eyes. You won't, will you?"

John shook his head, then stood up, and slipped out of his trousers. Sherlock could sense John's nervousness only by the way he took his time folding them up and placing them on a chair. He walked around to the other side of the bed and climbed in, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's. "Tell me."

"I used to have dreams, even before I left, it was never anything -" He bit his lip as John's eyes twinkled at him softly. "It was simply your presence, I would roll over and feel you against me, but when I woke up, you weren't there. It was easier not to sleep." He closed his eyes and waited, finally breathing again when he felt John gingerly lift him so his head rested against John's shoulder. John had draped one arm over his hip, and the fingers of his left hand were gently playing with his curls. "When I was away, I could feel you near me, I could hear you telling me not to give up, your voice got louder as time went on, it drowned out everything - as long as I could hear you, they couldn't touch me, until one day, I couldn't hear you anymore, John. I couldn't see you, or - damn. I was never going to - "

"I dreamed of you, too. It took some time but eventually the nightmares about Afghanistan were replaced by you, your voice carried me out of the traps and mazes, out of battlefields, you would lead me home and put on the kettle and tell me, tell me I was safe, you would tell me I was worth loving, Sherlock. No one had ever made me believe that. Only you. I would wake up to you grumbling about a case, or abusing your violin, and all I wanted to do was wrap my arms around you and never let go. But you wouldn't have - I didn't think you would - I believed what I had to offer you wasn't enough, I wasn't enough for me, how could I possibly think I had anything you could want or need."

Sherlock kissed John's chest and felt him shake beneath him. "You are all I've ever wanted, John. I was just afraid, I couldn't believe what I saw in your eyes, because no one had ever looked at me like that before, and I didn't deserve - I thought I needed to prove to you...give you -"

John kissed the top of Sherlock's head, letting his tears speak for him as they drifted off to sleep, finally where they were always meant to be.  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and the obligatory birthday bit, as Mr. Cumberbatch turns 41

Ridiculous. It was ridiculous. He was there or he wasn't. Last night had actually happened, or it had just been another one of those damn hallucinations - just open your eyes.

"Open your eyes, love."

Sherlock shut his eyes tighter and shook his head. "Uh - Uh."

"Sherlock."

"Nope."

John sighed and realized another tactic was needed. "Happy Birthday."

Sherlock's eyes flew open to see John grinning down at him. "How did you -"

"Greg let it slip out when you were in hospital." John fell back into his pillows. "He had been up for days, and he was thinking aloud, was worried about you - he didn't think I had heard him - when I asked him later, he made me promise that I wouldn't do or say anything, said you hated your birthday - but, I, since we - "

"Did he say why I hated my birthday?" Sherlock mumbled as he looked into John's eyes.

John bit his lip and nodded. "I asked him and he told me. And I finally understood why you -"

Sherlock sighed as he struggled to sit up. "You have to understand. I was twenty, I had nothing in my life, there was no one who -"

John reached over and took Sherlock's hand. Sherlock closed his eyes and continued slowly in a hushed tone. "When Lestrade found me, I fought him, but he was stronger, and I was just a junkie, exhausted and minutes away from - I just wanted to be left in peace. I didn't believe I would ever, that there would ever be someone who could, who would ever want me. And I didn't even realise it was my birthday until Lestrade told me the date when I woke up and he was there sitting next to me. My brother was doing whatever he did in those days, he had sent one of his minions, Lestrade knew him for what he was and sent him away. He just sat there and held my hand, didn't make me talk, just waited, then asked me if I could do anything, what would make me want to get clean - and I told him - that I wanted to be a detective. He rolled his eyes, but nodded and made me a deal -"

John brought Sherlock's wrist to his lips and kissed it softly, effectively ending the tumble of words. 

Sherlock tried to speak, but once again words failed him.

"I think -" John kissed his wrist once more, and smiled as he heard Sherlock sigh and melt into his pillows. "if you wouldn't mind too much, other than going out later for the obligatory birthday cake, we should celebrate this birthday by staying in bed, leaving it only when absolutely necessary. Would that be acceptable? It is your birthday, after all."

Sherlock nodded and whispered, "I do believe I find I am indeed amenable to the suggestion." 

 

Thank you - JW

For? - GL

For saving him - JW

I just happened to be the one who found him - GL

You gave him something to live for, that's not a small thing - JW

How is he? I know he usually has a rough day - GL

He's great actually, taking a nap in fact, but we wanted to invite you for cake later - JW

What time? - GL

8ish at that new cake place around the corner? - JW

I'll be there - GL

 

Sherlock looked over as John turned off his phone. 

"Hey, I didn't mean to wake you up." 

Sherlock shook his head and kissed John soundly, then pulled back and smiled at him.

"For the first time in my life, you have given me a reason to celebrate this day, John, and I think we could find a better use of our time, I mean sleeping is necessary of course, but -"

"Stop talking, Birthday Boy."

"Yes, John."


End file.
